


The Captain's Log, Redacted

by kcscribbler



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Crew as Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24934912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: Or, The Ongoing Saga of "WellThat'sNot Going in the Report."Never let it be said that First Officer Spock of the U.S.S. Enterprise makes the same error twice. Post-STID, he has become quite an expert at…heavily editing, the official reports which make their way back to Starfleet Command from uncharted space. These are those adventures.
Comments: 24
Kudos: 115





	1. Burning Bridges (Literally, the Bridge Is on Fire, Guys)

**_"We experienced a slight mechanical malfunction which necessitated our dropping out of warp for a period of approximately forty-eight hours while the problem was located and rectified._ **

_Relevant attached documents:_

_**Medical report 312:** Personnel eligible for hazard pay due to aforementioned malfunctions. _

_Also appended: **Damage and expense reports 4127:** Bridge console repair; **4128** : miscellaneous shuttlecraft supplies; and **4129** : fire suppressant system replacement."_

* * *

"What _exactly_ are we paying you for, if you can't even tell me why half my ship is becoming Delta Vega and the other half the Vulcan colony?"

"Technically, this is very much _outside_ the typical officer's pay grade," Uhura points out mildly, not even looking up from the comms board. It's been going completely bonkers for the last three hours as the crew becomes very much aware, and not happily so, that this isn't some minor Engineering issue that's just one of the many fleeting inconveniences that happen with fair regularity on a ship this size.

The glare he sends her over his shoulder is totally pointless if she isn't even looking at him, but it makes half the shivering crewmen around her laugh nervously, so at least there's that. They have to grasp at straws here or they're going to end up biting each other's heads off for real in short order. He's already had to send four of the colder-blooded beta crewmen off the Bridge because they were turning a scary shade of pale, and he's going to give Spock about ten more minutes or one more honest-to-god shiver before he does the same.

 _"Sir, I swear I am doin’ the best I can! But if the problem is buried in one o' the nacelles it's not something I can just see from a diagnostic. I won't know until the crews get into the conduits there to have a look-around in person_!"

He rubs a thumb wearily between his eyes, and seriously debates whether or not it's damaging to his Captain's image to just break down and wear the freaking gloves most of the rest of his crew have subtly donned by now. "How long do you think that's going to take?"

_"They're halfway through, sir. Another hour and it'll be a complete inspection. If we canna find the problem that way then it'll be movin' on to takin' apart the entire Environmental Control motherboards piece by piece to get at the couplings behind them, that's the only way to find the problem."_

"And that's at least, what, a four-hour job?"

_"At least, sir. There's no way to speed it up, the catwalks aren't wide enough to put more men up there than that."_

"So in theory, we could be looking at a shipwide environmental emergency in five hours."

 _"Less than that, sir."_ Scott's voice is calm, but threaded with tension. _"I'm getting regular reports from all over the ship, Captain, and the lower and upper decks are already at the extreme ends of the spectrum. Two hours and they'll be uninhabitable, even to the hardiest of species. We have a problem, sir, and no mistake."_

He exhales slowly, trying his best not to shiver in front of his entire Bridge crew, who are all obviously eyeing his chair in trepidation now.

"Start taking apart the EC boards now, don't wait for the nacelle inspection. Worst case, we just lose an hour putting everything back together."

_"Aye, sir."_

"Then find me a solution that could vent the plasma from the escape shuttles, we may have to bunk a lot of the crew inside the bays for the night. At least they're insulated."

_"I can tell you now, sir, ventilation won't be possible with the EC board down completely. However…worst case, we could always launch the shuttles for a few hours, the ship can run with a skeleton crew if she has to evacuate down to, say, 20% capacity? That'll let us shut down all but essential systems for twelve hours if worst comes to worst."_

He nods absently, forgetting Scotty can't see him. It's not ideal, but it'll take the pressure off if they have to. Thank goodness he insisted on doubling the number of escape shuttles installed after Khan's rampage last year.

"Make it happen, Scotty. Report to me when you've completed shuttle inspections or if you find the problem before that, and we'll be in touch with an evac plan if it looks like we're going to come to it."

_"Roger that, sir."_

"Bridge out." He swivels his chair, looking around the Bridge. Shaking his head, he sighs. "Lieutenant Krythza, get to Sickbay immediately, stop trying to be a hero."

The poor young Katarran looks back at him, ears drooping, but obviously shivering far beyond reasonable tolerance. "But sir –"

"Lieutenant, I'm about to stop the ship and put the Bridge on autopilot, you're just the advance force." He manages a smile through teeth that are chattering himself. "Now go. Mr. Spock, you might as well go with him, you're next on the list."

"I assure you, Captain – "

"You'll be of more use to me in Engineering than freezing up here, if you want to remain on duty," he interrupts, not unkindly. "And Engineering is an almost _literal_ furnace right now. You want to help, get down there and crack the whip on Scotty. Go on, get."

After only a moment's hesitation more, he sees something like gratitude flicker through his First's expression, and it's almost hilarious how quickly the turbolift doors close behind the two colder-blooded officers.

"Mr. Sulu, bring us to a full stop and put the engines on auto-pilot. The rest of you, do the same to your stations, then get below decks. If your cabins are in the safe zone, remain in them or in one of the warmer common areas until we make a shipwide announcement about an evac plan. If your cabin is not in a safe zone, report to Sickbay for temporary reassignment. Not you, Chekov, I need you in Engineering. Report to Mr. Scott for assignment to the EC crew. I'll see you get compensated when this mess is over with, I promise."

The young man's head bobs readily enough, likely just thankful to be on his way to a warmer area of the ship. A sprinkling of grateful replies ripples around the Bridge, accompanied by a cloud of chilly vapor particles in the increasingly frigid air as stations begin chirping to indicate shutdown mode.

He turns back to the Comms station, shifting slightly as he feels the ship's powerful engines begin to slow, a rumble deep beneath their feet. "Can you work that thing remotely from Auxiliary?"

"Not very well. It's already overloaded. I'm about to make an announcement for everyone to stay off the intra-comms for anything but non-emergency or medical reasons, that should help."

"I have to stay up here, there has to be a command officer on the Bridge even when the ship's on autopilot. Can I help sort things so you can work it from down there?"

She shakes her head. "I don't think so. And I'm fine, for now at least. Would like to go put on something more sensible than this ridiculous uniform dress, though."

He snorts. "Permission granted, and make an announcement that no one will be put on report for being caught out of uniform if it's medically necessary due to the Environmental Control malfunctions before you go. Make sure Spock's okay too, if you want, then come back when you can."

She nods in unspoken thanks, and puts the board on temporary hold before heading for the turbolift ahead of the primary crew force.

"And bring me a coffee when you come back!" he calls after her, only half-joking.

"Not your yeoman!"

* * *

She does bring him a coffee, bless her, and a thick fleece sweater from he has no idea where, when she returns in full insulated tactical gear twenty minutes later. The Bridge is deserted now, and it's a good thing too because the temperature's dropped another five degrees. This close to the apex of the saucer section, it's likely to become the coldest spot on the ship in the next few hours, and eventually they will have to leave, regulations be damned.

She's also brought a small portable heater from SS&R which she plops down in front of his chair, and a couple of blankets which are heavenly after the chill of the last few hours. She nods in acceptance of his totally sincere thanks and then sets back to work on the communications board, no doubt hoping to clear most of it before being driven off the Bridge. This sucks, but they're both officers who have been through worse conditions.

As whole, the _Enterprise_ is a hardy crew, and not a one of the rest of them had complained before he kicked them off the Bridge, but there's no sense in anyone being unnecessarily miserable. And there's no point in them continuing to struggle through space with something major having knocked out the EC controls shipwide, so autopilot it is. He's in for a miserable night, because someone has to man the Bridge, but personally he'd rather be cold than hot, and he's definitely had worse than a mild case of hypothermia, though very few on this crew actually know that.

He huddles up in his chair, basically sitting on his legs and one of the blankets wrapped up and over his head like a weird hooded poncho-thing, and starts grumpily scrolling through the horrendously frightening number of Engineering reports that are being generated from the chaos happening aboard.

A silence falls, punctuated only by the various beeps and chirps coming from behind him on the comms board and the occasional murmur of a message being transferred with an audio comment.

The reports aren't encouraging; an hour later, the nacelle inspection's finished and they haven't found the problem yet, so they're continuing to take apart the entire EC system board by board. He knows with Spock breathing down everyone's necks down there the job will likely get done a little faster than it would normally, but given what he's seeing in the temperature indicators all over the ship they are running out of time either way.

He knows even before opening the Urgent packet from Sickbay that he's going to see a slew of Engineering personnel down with heatstroke and heat exhaustion; the bottom half of the ship is rapidly becoming unbearable for human tolerance.

Just as the upper half is becoming too cold for comfort.

"You about done, Lieutenant?" he asks, trying to keep his jaw steady and teeth not chattering.

"Just about. At least to the point I can finish from Auxiliary." He glances back to see her blowing on her fingers, even encased as they are in thin insulated gloves, before going back to typing with lightning-fast rapidity on two different screens in quick succession. "Not that it's going to be any more pleasant down there."

"Bones says Sickbay's already full of Engineering personnel down for the count. I'm counting on you to make sure we don't lose Scotty and Spock before this gets fixed. And I need it _fixed_. Before someone dies over something this stupid."

"Understood." She presses one final switch and then stands, gathering up a bunch of data-padds. Her eyes meet his over the stack for a moment, and a flicker of amusement at his huddled-up appearance flashes through them before fading to concern. "Don't tell me you're going to stay up here much longer. The temperature's dropping four or five degrees an hour, at least."

"If it drops much further, I won't have a choice but to call it, and take responsibility for waiving the regulations," he agrees. "I have no desire to be back in a cryotube, thank you."

A firm smack to the back of the head as she passes his chair. "That's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

Her laugh turns into a teeth-chattering snort as the lift doors close, and silence envelops the Bridge once more.

It's freaking creepy.

* * *

He spends an hour plowing through as much paperwork as possible, and then says to hell with his pride and sits on the floor instead of his chair, because he can sit like an inch from the small heater that way, smushed up against it like a cat on a vent opening.

And he's getting sleepy, which isn't a good sign. It's getting too damn cold. But he really isn't comfortable leaving the Bridge without a duty watch officer, that's a regulation he could seriously get in trouble for if something were to happen. If for some reason the lift systems were to go out, for example, and they were attacked, while the autopilot can be disengaged from Engineering there'd be no one on the Bridge to take command once it was removed. And while that's a very small possibility, he's learned the hard way that those tiny possibilities have an uncanny habit of following them around the galaxy and swooping in at the least opportune times.

He's not going to chance that until he absolutely has to. Call it overcompensation, call it overkill, call it the fact that he's no longer a stupid kid with delusions of grandeur due to an abrupt and very rude awakening to the fact that loss is much more real than even this crew had ever thought possible. But he's not going to risk anyone under his command, ever again, unless it's 100% necessary for the sake of a mission. If that means he himself has to deal with a little discomfort, well, that's just part of the job.

A sucky part of it, in cases like this.

Unfortunately, there's no crewman with command abilities he can even call up to spell him while he goes to warm up; Spock wouldn't last ten minutes up here with the temp where it is right now, and he needs Scotty to stay on the problem. Sulu is capable enough in a pinch but there's little point in pulling him back at this hour just because Jim can't suck it up and deal for a little while longer.

But he needs to not fall asleep, so he thinks he can be forgiven the blatant breaking of regulation when he in desperation pulls up the _Enterprise_ music library banks and makes use of the formidable Bridge speaker system for some fairly heavy metal classical music it likely has never played in its entire colorful history.

Who knew the place had such great surround-sound?

What's of more concern, is the fact that there's an occasional weird little lurching sensation every so often that tells him EC might not be the only system having issues. If they lose the inertial dampeners too? They lose artificial gravity, they lose shields, they lose the ability to move and maneuver in space.

As it stands, they're temporarily sitting dead in space with only gravity and navigation functioning, as the two systems not part of the essential ones being taken offline with the core shut-off happening below, and it makes him very uneasy. But if something else was happening, Scotty would contact him, and it's not going to help anything for him to demand a report from people already working at their hardest capacity.

It does make his stomach sink just a little when the intra-comm whistles, though, and he scrambles up to depress the switch so quickly he almost cracks his head open on the stupid chair, legs nearly numb from sitting on them.

"Bridge." Ow ow ow. He flops ungracefully back into the chair, scowling, and glances at the origin indicator. Thank goodness, it's not Engineering. "You guys still alive down there, Bones?"

 _"We're startin' to break out the sweaters, but nobody's building snowmen yet,"_ is the grumbled reply, and he tries not to laugh. _"What in the name of all that's holy is that racket, Jim?"_

Oh, the music. "Computer, reduce audio eighty percent. Sorry. Trying to stay awake up here."

_"No kidding. That's why I'm calling you, my reports say that place is way below human tolerance levels now. You need to call it and leave, Jim, I'm not joking. You're chancing hypothermia here."_

"I've got a heater, and I'm okay for now."

_"Are you shivering?"_

"Yes, I'm still shivering, and I'm not super sleepy right now. I know what hypothermia feels like, Bones. I've still got a little while."

_"You're not out of there in an hour, I'm coming up there to get you, understand?"_

"I'm totally fine with that." He shivers reflexively, very much missing the heater. "But I just can't leave until I have to, you know the kind of luck we have. And hopefully Scotty'll figure out what's going on before too much longer."

_"He'd better. I'm out of beds in here now, we're turning conference rooms on either side of us into triage rooms, all the way down the hall. Mass heatstroke or hypothermia victims, even with the warnings Uhura made. We need this fixed, Jim."_

"I'm well aware." He blows on his fingers, already starting to feel numb away from the heat. "How many of the crew have reported to Sickbay due to displacement?"

_"I've examined upwards of two hundred and sent 'em on their way, but that's to be expected. Primary rec areas are still in a moderate zone and that's where they're congregating for now, but in another twelve hours only Decks 20-28 will be habitable, and those won't be comfortable for anything close to a humanoid species. We got a few of the cooler-blooded ones bunking closer to the engines but there's not a lot of wiggle room here for most of the crew."_

"Understood. I'm about to start a controlled evac to the shuttles. If you have anyone in a red zone you think would benefit from twelve hours in a heated shuttle run a report up to me in the next hour and I'll assign them first."

_"How about if I don't see you in an hour I bring it to you and haul your ass off that Bridge before you turn into a popsicle."_

"Or that." He laughs, a puff of ice-crystals in the chill. "Hey, Scotty's calling from Engineering, call you back." He clicks the other switch with the hand he's been sitting on, and replaces it with his half-frozen one. "This had better be good news, Mr. Scott."

 _"Well, it is an' it isn't, sir."_ Bless him, Scotty bears the brunt of his frustration more times than is fair and never loses his cool about it.

He sighs out his frustration. "Go on."

_"We found the problem, sir, and only just in time too. Another two hours and she'd be beyond repair without a dry-dock to settle in while we were to take the whole aft compartments apart."_

That chills him more than the atmosphere does. "What exactly could cause that much of an issue when we haven't seen a conflict in two weeks?"

_"'Twas those faulty hydraulic couplings, sir, the ones the 'Fleet recalled six months past."_

He sits up straighter at that, because engineering recalls are usually life-threatening matters and that particular one had been a Priority One recall, overseen and signed off on by both Scott and his First Officer. "Are you telling me we _missed_ one in the recall? That's an oversight I will not tolerate, Mr. Scott."

_"No, sir! What kind o' Chief Engineer do y'take me for!"_

"One that was going to lose his job if you missed something that important," he retorts, with fast-dissolving patience.

_"Aye, and rightly so, Captain. But we got them all replaced right enough, sir."_

"So what was the problem?"

_"The problem is that two o'the replacement couplings apparently had flaws as well, sir. Totally unrelated, as they're from a completely different outpost supplier and there've been no recalls about this particular batch that I've seen come across the Engineering boards."_

He sighs. This is the kind of luck they have. "Spell this out for me, Scotty."

_"Each coupling developed a fault, sir, which due to the heavy hydraulic strain shrank under pressure, causing a massive loss of power deep inside the primary environmental control units. The loss of power then caused a chain reaction of safety shutdowns throughout the environmental control system, which should cancel out automatically once power is fully restored. It's not a programmin' issue like we thought, sir, purely engineering."_

"So it's fixable, you just need to replace the faulty couplings."

_"Well…in theory, Captain, yes."_

"I don't like that 'in theory.'"

_"Problem is, sir, we've no more of the correct size coupling available on board. 'Tis not a size we normally keep more than one or two spares of, and we used those after the recall. We're due to stock up at Starbase Twenty-Four."_

And that's two weeks away at normal warp.

"Can you replicate the couplings?"

_"Aye, sir, we've already diverted power to the replicating units, but it's a delicate piece of machinery and it'll take another twelve hours at least. That's the not-so-good news, sir."_

"Twelve hours to replicate the pieces, and how long for installation?"

_"We're prepping systems now, sir, to save time, but it'll take at least eight hours to install. It should really take twelve to sixteen if all safety measures are followed, but I can cut it down to eight. They're in the worst possible place, sir, and the whole kit an' caboodle has to come apart to even get at them, suspended right over the data processing core."_

"Can you cut the time down to this eight hours without endangering the ship or crew?"

_"Aye, sir, I can have an eagle eye out for one crew if I have Mr. Spock watching the other for safety precautions."_

"Permission granted, but I want both of you off-duty until the couplings are finished then so you're on full alert."

_"Aye, sir. Soon as I make sure everything's proceeding as scheduled down here I'll find him and take off for a while. Scott out."_

Twenty hours minimum for installation, at least. It'll take another two hours after that to recalibrate the systems back to normal, and another three or four, at least, to get the temperature controls back to where they should be. A full day, minimum.

Not good.

He more slides than sits back down in front of the heater, muttering something extremely unflattering about the idiot who designed these ridiculously flimsy uniforms, and taps his fingers uneasily on the floor, debating.

Finally, with a huff of half-frozen particulates, he leans back to be heard over the hum of the heater.

"Computer, what is the closest Class-M planet?"

 _"Working."_ Even the computer sounds cold and cranky. _"The closest Class-M planet is seventy-four-point-two-five parsecs' distance from the current coordinates of U.S.S. Enterprise."_

At impulse power, they won't make it there anytime soon, but their shuttles are equipped with short-range warp drives that could make the jump in a matter of minutes. It's really against regulation to evac the majority of the crew, but another twenty-four hours could actually, legit kill people if the temperature continues to drop in most of the ship. And while they all know there's inherent risk in being out here, he'll be damned if he lets his people die from nothing more than a faulty hydraulic coupling.

This is really going to suck, though, because it means due to the autopilot already having shut down non-essential systems shipwide, for another hour all remaining power has to be diverted to the shuttle bays in order to permit depressurization and liftoff. All remaining non-essential mechanical systems will go offline as a safety measure, including turbolifts, during that time. He'll be definitively stuck up here for another hour, at least; even if he wanted to leave – which he wouldn't, because someone has to have a hand on the master autopilot overrides in case of tiny-possibility security issues like a jammed bay door and overloading engine – he won't be able to for quite a while here.

Might as well get it started now, then.

He sighs, and finally just picks up the heater to bring with him, tries to balance it on the back of his chair before deciding to hell with his precious command image. He plops down at the comms station and there, now he can set his new friend right beside him on the shiny durasteel counter surface.

Two buttons and he hears the static crackle indicating the shipwide comm is open.

"Attention all hands, this is the Captain speaking."

He never does get tired of saying that.

"I am taking responsibility for initiating General Order 13- _C_ , a controlled shipwide evacuation via evac shuttle _only_ , effective immediately. This is not a drill. All non-essential personnel, please proceed to your designated shuttle bays and await further instructions. Department heads, report section evacuation complete to Engineering to begin initiating section shutdown."

He sees the board start lighting up with messages flying across the ship, and just as quickly winking out again; Uhura must still be in Auxiliary.

"Again, this is not a drill, this is a controlled evacuation of all non-essential personnel. This includes all Science departments with the exception of the First Officer and five ranking Medical officers. Communications. Operations. All Security with the exception of ranking officers. At this time we cannot afford to evac any Engineering personnel who are not already under observation in Sickbay, with the exception of non-humanoid species who will no longer be able to tolerate the shipwide temperatures during the next forty-eight hours."

A light is blinking insistently on the edge of the board.

"Let me reiterate, this is a _controlled_ evacuation, gentlemen. There will be no chaos on this ship, and anyone attempting to incite it will be locked in the brig for the duration – and I've been told it's nearing volcanic temperatures in there, so I'd advise against it. We've located a Class-M planet only a short hop from our current location; think of this as an impromptu shore leave." He tries to keep his tone light, hard as it is with his teeth still chattering. "The ranking officer in each shuttle should report to Mr. Scott when the shuttle reaches capacity and await further instructions. The _Enterprise_ will be in considerably more welcoming condition when you return, gentlemen."

He blows on his fingers for a second and then flips the switch under the light that's still blinking.

"Bridge."

 _"I am not evac-ing this ship with the rest of you still on board trying to fix this mess, Comms procedures or not,"_ Uhura's voice crackles with both static and annoyance.

He laughs. "The thought honestly never crossed my mind."

_"Good. And shut off cross-circuit board B, it shouldn't be running at the same time people are using the blue zone channels. That's why you're getting all that feedback."_

He glances over, finds the correct switch and flips it. A moment later the static clears. "Thanks."

_"How much longer are you going to stay up there? It can't possibly be at a safe temperature anymore."_

"Soon as the lifts are back online again and the shuttles have jumped to warp, I'm out of here, I promise."

 _"Good. Spock's freaking out."_ There's a distant hubbub of what sounds like vocal protest, and he hears her laugh. _"Mostly because he doesn't want to have to come up there in the cold to get you, so as soon as those shuttles clear the bays get **out** of there."_

He laughs, watches the shimmer of durasteel fog with condensation. "You got it. And that heater's been a lifesaver, probably literally. You get a commendation in your file."

A snort. _"Let's worry about getting out of this one before the heat corrodes the memory banks down here first."_

"Done. Light a fire under Scotty for me."

_"Already have. It's upwards of 39 degrees down here right now and still climbing."_

"Jesus. That's no better than up here."

_"It's a little better. We just have to stay hydrated and not overdo it. Look, I need to keep these channels clear while the shuttles fill. Check in if you start feeling sleepy, yeah?"_

"Will do. Have Scotty ping me when the lifts are back online, though, in case I fall asleep."

_"Aye, sir."_

He signs off and unplugs to free up another channel, watches the messages fly across the board for a few minutes in lieu of anything more interesting. He shoots the coordinates of the destination planet down to Engineering and lets them take over directing the evacuation.

And that's when karma apparently decides upon a more expedient method of making sure he doesn't fall asleep.

* * *

He picks himself up off the deck, all thoughts of a warm bed and hot chocolate long gone under that single-minded, fear-driven fury of _what the hell just fired on my ship in the middle of uncharted space_.

He leaves the primary shipwide comm line open because he doesn't really have a choice at this point, and the comms station erupts into sound behind him as he scrambles for Spock's viewing station, because he needs 360-degree sight around this vessel like _now_. And being a one-man Bridge crew doesn't bode well for their chances in whatever's about to go down.

_"Engineering to Bridge, what the devil is going on up there!"_

"If I knew we wouldn't still be on auto-pilot, now would we!" he hollers. "Get that disengaged, Mr. Scott!"

_"Aye, sir, doin' it now, but it isna going to do us any good with all essential systems offline!"_

That's what he was afraid of. Spock's scanners are showing a ship of some indeterminate origin lingering off their port bow, and a residual tachyon trail is showing where a phaser blast has just seared into their thankfully uninhabited-because-it's-reached-Saharan-temperatures lower decks. No proximity alert had sounded upon its arrival due to the auto-pilot and the essential systems being offline. They'd been a sitting duck, in other words. Or the ship could very well have been sitting there this whole time; they had dropped out of warp with so many malfunctions happening and the auto-pilot already starting to take over that no one had noticed it. A rookie mistake, and one he might very well _not_ live to regret here if he doesn't do something fast.

"I need you to get weapons back online, Scotty," he warns, as the ship rocks again under another blast.

_"Impossible, sir. The EC board is still in a hundred pieces and it cannot be put together that fast! Bringing those systems back online with that circuitry exposed will create a thermal reaction that would blow the whole ship apart."_

"Then get me engines so we can get the hell out of here!"

_"Sir…"_

Spock's voice breaks in, the always-present calm in chaos which he badly needs right now. _"Captain, bringing any essential system online right now will produce the same result. This includes all weaponry, propulsion, and unfortunately the shielding systems as well."_

Well that's not good. The ship quakes beneath him as another blast hits closer to her heart, and he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration, making a dash back across the Bridge for the comms station.

"Unknown ship, this is Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ , representing the United Federation of Planets. We are on a peaceful mission and you are firing upon an unarmed vessel. Please identify and respond. Uhura, keep broadcasting that on every frequency with the universal translator."

_"Yes, sir."_

_"Captain."_

"Go ahead, Spock."

 _"Sir, the enemy ship has veered away from the_ Enterprise _and is moving toward the departing shuttlecraft."_

He swears under his breath as he sees corroborating visuals on the scanners. "What the hell do they _want_!"

_"Unknown, sir."_

"How long until the last one jumps?"

_"At least another seven minutes, sixteen seconds."_

Yes, of course. Escape shuttlecraft were never designed to depart and immediately jump to warp. They each have to be a fair distance away from each other and have to let the residual warp bubble collapse before the next jumps or risk their coordinates starting off hundreds of degrees in the wrong direction and overlapping bubbles creating temporal anomalies.

Uhura's voice cracks across the channel. _"Sir, I've gotten no response from the enemy ship."_

There's a flurry of indistinct noise, and then Scotty's panicked addition. _"Captain, they're firing on the shuttles now!"_

"Like hell they are," he growls, stumbling on still-numb feet down the steps toward the front console. "Navigation's still online because it's a separate essential system from the primaries, right?"

_"Aye, sir, but –"_

"Then you worry about getting that board back together so I get everything else online _stat_ , Mr. Scott. Uhura, open a channel to the evac shuttles."

_"Channel open, sir."_

He makes a controlled dive into the navigator's chair and begins firing up the nav computer. "Bridge to Evac shuttles, this is the captain. You've no doubt realized we have an unwelcome visitor, who may be causing you a little trouble before you make your jump. Your orders are to continue on course to the coordinates of the planet Mr. Scott has already sent to your nav computers. The _Enterprise_ will rendezvous with your shuttles there in no later than 48 hours' time."

He slides over to the pilot's seat and begins punching in the commands for the thrusters, the only propulsion system online now. "If for some reason the _Enterprise_ does not arrive at that time, you are to activate emergency distress beacons and await Starfleet's arrival or new orders. Now get moving as quickly as you can, gentlemen, and good luck." He punches the button to fire full thrusters, and feels the straining groan of the ship start to slowly try to break free of the stillness and gain inertia once more. She turns, but slowly, and he spares a minute to blow on his fingers in an effort to gain feeling in them. Adrenaline's already making him sweat, but his extremities are freezing still.

The ship rotates slowly, and then gains a little momentum as he fires short thruster bursts in quick succession to get her moving again.

 _"Captain, what are you doing?"_ That's Sulu's voice, and he's supposed to be on one of the shuttles.

"Buying you time, Mr. Sulu. Unless you have a better idea of how to shield the shuttlecraft until you can warp out of here."

_"Sir, the Bridge isn't shielded at **all** if the essential systems are offline!"_

"Yes, well, buying time sometimes is just a fancy word for gambling, Mr. Sulu." He steers the ship with single-minded determination in a line between the enemy ship and the shuttles. Weirdly enough, the enemy ship appears to be content to hover in one position to fire, rather than moving – only a few parsecs from her previous position near the _Enterprise_ 's port bow. By shifting the ship in between the departing shuttles, and flipping her nose and top toward the enemy vessel, he's put a temporary shield between them just due to sheer size. This has freed up the last few shuttles to scramble out the back of the ship from the bays between the nacelles without being fired on.

 _"Cap'n, one good shot from that thing and it could blow the whole Bridge dome to kingdom come!"_ Scotty's voice is high-pitched with panic, and his accent's almost indecipherable.

"Like I said. Get those systems back online, Mr. Scott."

 _"Captain, interposing the_ Enterprise _herself as a physical shield between the ships will accomplish little but to cause damage to the ship itself, as she is completely unshielded due to the power drains."_ Spock's words are calm, but the tone is threaded with tension.

"And you think those shuttle shields will hold up against unknown starship phasers? Not happening, Spock. We're a bigger target at least, and most of the crew's far enough below decks thanks to the temperature problems that even a hull breach will have minimal casualties if they get lucky. Sound the alarm to evacuate any remaining upper deck crewmen to Deck Five or below." He taps in another command to turn the ship so she's totally topside toward the enemy vessel. "So, how good are you at manually launching torpedos, Mr. Scott?"

There's a brief silence, and then a scuffle on the other end of the line. _"We'll get right on it, sir. But it'll take a wee bit to recalibrate the homing device on each one."_

"Spock?"

_"On my way. Mr. Scott, I will require three technicians and a programmer with a no more than 0.001% error record. Preferably Mr. Chekov if he can be spared at his post."_

_"On it, sir."_

_"I will meet you there, Meester Spock."_

It'll get done in a quarter of the time, then, that's good. He can hold out that long up here, hopefully.

A blinding green light flashes dangerously close to the main viewer, and something explodes off to his right.

Well, he can hold out if they don't get a lucky shot into something vital. He's at least got their attention, that's for sure.

"Scotty, give me a countdown on those shuttles."

_"Thirteen to go, sir, just under three minutes remaining."_

He cuts the thrusters; momentum will keep the ship in place now between the smaller targets and whatever this is. "Lieutenant Uhura, report."

_"Nothing, captain. What I can't understand is why I'm not getting a reception report. Channels are open but I'm getting a bounceback signal instead of at least indication they've intentionally blocked reception. It could be that their species literally doesn't communicate by sound, is the only thing I can think of, or that their reception software is so far below our technology it's not registering any known frequency. And I've included the shortwave, local, and old 'Fleet frequencies just in case, sir."_

Well that's just fabulous.

A sudden blast directly blinds the main viewer, and something explodes at his left, forcing him to duck behind the console edges to avoid a shattering spray of debris.

_"Captain, are you all right?"_

"I'm good, but I don't think this place is going to hold up under many more of those," he shouts over the alarm klaxons shrieking from the Engineering station. "Computer, shut off those freaking sirens!"

_"Unable to comply."_

"Are you kidding me right now."

_"Invalid data. Please restate inquiry."_

He hears a stifled laugh over the comm and the wailing is abruptly cut off a moment later, no doubt from Engineering or Auxiliary. "Thanks. Look, people, I need options and I need them now. I'd very much prefer not being blown off my own Bridge through our front window."

_"Keptin, can you climb down the turboshaft?"_

"I don't think so. The doors are sealed until the shuttle lockdown's lifted, so I'd have to break them open somehow, and even if I could do that my fingers and toes are still numb from the cold, I'm not sure I could actually hold on for a seven-deck climb on that ladder. Not unless it's absolutely the last option."

Another blast rocks the ship, and he slaps a button on the nav console to fire the aft thrusters and keep them turned toward the enemy vessel. The alarming dip in the lights and hum of machinery around him as he does indicates he probably won’t have enough power for another burst.

"Besides, until those shuttles are away someone has to stay up here and make sure we compensate for drift, you can't control primary navigation from down there once the core's been taken offline."

_"Right, Cap'n, one torpedo ready for manual lock and fire in…"_

_"Two minutes, Keptin."_

_"Less than two minutes, sir. But what the devil d'ye expect to do with it, may I ask?"_

"Get lucky, I hope," he says dryly. "Okay, earn your paychecks, guys. Give me a readout on this thing. I only have two hands up here and they're both full at the moment. Readings, stats, speculation, anything. What am I _looking_ at."

Another blinding beam of light just barely misses the hull, and he winces reflexively, glad it missed that time. "Computer, dim viewscreen. And how the hell are they firing on us that fast!"

 _"Good question, Cap'n,"_ Scotty's voice is slower now, obviously pondering that. _"Hold a minute, Bridge."_

_"Spock to Bridge."_

"Go ahead."

_"Captain, while I more than agree with your assessment of the situation and in fact see little alternative to an aggressive defense at the moment, I would hesitate to completely destroy the enemy vessel without attempting to ascertain a motive for its unprovoked attack, or indeed who precisely is at the helm."_

"And while I agree with you, Commander, if I have to choose between them or us it's not going to be us." He sighs, rubbing a thumb between his eyes to ward off the headache. "I only have one shot here, it's not like I can shoot to just disable even if we could make a good guess about their ship's construction."

_"Agreed."_

"So…" He exhales slowly. "I am open to ideas, but you probably have about sixty seconds to put them on the table before I have to pull a trigger of some kind."

_"I had already formulated one such idea, Captain."_

"Of course you did." He tries not to laugh despite the situation. "I presume it's already being put into action and this is your courtesy call, Mr. Spock?"

He hears an outright laugh from Auxiliary Control, and dead silence from his First's end for a moment.

"Look, just…I don't care, just loop me in here before –" He looks up just in time to see the enemy ship dangerously close on the viewer and a broad green light glowing from what has to be a phaser bank on her stern. He yelps, drops and ducks under the nav console, covering his head as around the Bridge multiple stations suddenly explode in a shower of sparks. Something large and heavy falls from the ceiling over by the port side turbolift, and he prays that cracking noise he hears isn't the main viewer because if it is, he's in big, big trouble.

Breathing heavily, he coughs out a lung of electrical-tanged smoke and scrambles back to the comms board. "Damage report!"

The shipwide channel's totally dead, obviously something's been damaged, so he hits the alternate switch for Engineering. "Bridge to Engineering, give me a damage report!"

 _"Captain!"_ From Scotty's relieved tone, it's obvious that auxiliary had shown the impact up here very clearly _. "Sir, it's mostly confined to the upper decks, nothing major. A few fires that're bein' put out, and some power surges down here but nothing that'll set back repairs. Pretty sure the Bridge directly took the worst of it, sir."_

"Good." He coughs again. "What happened to the fire suppressant system up here?"

_"Uh…it should be working just fine if needed, sir, I'm getting no reading otherwise?"_

"Well it's needed, and it's _not_ ," he says dryly. "Can you at least vent this smoke for me? And get me Uhura or Spock, wherever they are now, the shipwide's not working."

_“Try the Sickbay channel, sir.”_

He flicks the switch quickly, eyeing the fire still burning in the library console. “Bridge to Sickbay, someone better have good news for me.”

_"I'm here, sir. Auxiliary got evac-ed due to a brief coolant leak so I'm helping Spock finish patching in the Med mainframe to the remote scanning system."_

"Do what now?"

 _"He thinks he can use the medical mainframe in conjunction with the_ Enterprise _'s library banks and scanning system to scan the enemy ship for life-forms."_

"Two problems with that. One, what good is that going to do us?"

_"Scotty was the one who noticed, he started tracking the time between each blast from the ship, sir."_

"And?"

 _"The time between each phaser fire is precisely two hundred twenty seconds, sir,"_ Spock's voice cuts in, a little muffled.

"Wait, each time?"

_"Exactly that, each time. It's way too much to be coincidence."_

"So you think the weapons systems, at least, are fired by artificial intelligence, if not the whole ship being manned that way," he muses aloud, nodding to himself. "That would explain why it hasn't utilized any basic battle maneuvers and why it hasn't responded to hails. It's not programmed to."

_"Exactly. It might just be a sort of border patrol ship for some remote culture, a sort of guard dog for the system, anything – we have no idea where we are, really, we just dropped out of warp unexpectedly into totally uncharted space."_

"And if it's run by computer we can destroy it with a decent conscience for not destroying actual life. Nice job, guys."

_"But you said two problems, Captain?"_

"Oh, right…" He glances sideways, wincing. "The library console is kind of…on fire."

 _"It **what**!"_ Great, that's Bones, and this is what he was hoping to avoid.

"Well, in all fairness so is half the Bridge, but –"

_"Captain, why has the fire suppressant system not activated?"_

"If I knew, Spock –"

_"Jim, bust down that turbolift door and get your ass off there, now."_

"Dude, calm down. It's contained. It'll burn out in a minute, and besides, if you didn't know, we're kind of in the middle of a space battle here!"

Another blast rocks the ship as if to add credence to his words, and he grabs the lip of the comms station for balance.

"If we're going to destroy an enemy ship without making contact then someone has to be on the Bridge assuming responsibility for that decision. Until that thing blows I stay, so." He bats at a spark that lands on the console. "Look, at least I'm not cold anymore."

He hears a flurry of commotion on the other end of the line. _"Give us two minutes, Jim."_

"Make it less if you can. You'll have to reroute through the auxiliary library banks, Spock. Comm me when you have confirmation of no life aboard."

_"Yes, Captain."_

"Bridge out. Mr. Scott, is that torpedo armed and ready?"

_"Aye, sir. Just waiting on coordinates, sir."_

"Divert all remaining non-essential system power to the nav computer for two minutes so I can compute them."

_"Yes, sir. Captain, we're getting all kinds of warnings from up there, are you sure you're all right?"_

"It's a little toasty now, but I'm fine, Mr. Scott. Everything should burn out in a minute or two, but that vent I asked for would be helpful."

_"Aye, sir, workin' on it. But –"_

"It's controlled from the EC board that's still in pieces, yes, I was afraid of that." He stifles a cough in his sleeve, and starts inputting computations in the nav computer. It would help if the air wasn't hazy, but _c'est la vie_. Especially their _vie_. "Coordinates sent."

_"Acknowledged. She'll be ready to go on your signal, sir."_

"Do we have any power to the engines yet at all?" Another wide beam glances off the side of the saucer section, so close to the Bridge he can feel the rumble of damaged plating being shredded from the hull not far beyond the walls of the dome.

_"No, sir. But depressurizing all the unoccupied decks and the empty shuttle bays plus what's left in the forward thrusters should be enough to move us clear of the blast zone. Maybe. Ehm. I think?"_

He rolls his eyes, waving a haze of smoke away from the console to see better. "It will have to do. Scan and make sure those decks are empty, then be ready to depressurize on my mark. Did the shuttles evac all right?"

_"Aye, sir – all safely away, got confirmation a moment ago."_

Well, that's one thing going right for them today.

The other comm channel snaps at him from the back of the Bridge, and he half-turns. "Computer, open channel. Bridge here."

_"Spock, Captain. Scans show conclusively that the enemy vessel is solely operated by artificial intelligence, and rudimentary intelligence at that; computer-generated, not classifiable as a lifeform. No organic life-signs."_

He smiles. "Thank you, Mr. Spock. Computer, open all channels." With the shipwide down, this will have to do; he has to hope the remaining crew are within reach of a departmental comm. "All hands, this is the captain. Prepare for imminent collision conditions. I repeat, prepare for imminent collision conditions. This is not a drill."

He flicks the firing switch for the thrusters into ready position.

"Computer, close all channels. Open Engineering channel."

_"Scott here, sir."_

"On my mark, Mr. Scott, fire torpedo to the coordinates provided and immediately depressurize."

_"Aye, sir."_

"Firing commencing in three. Two. And one – fire torpedo, Mr. Scott."

_"Torpedo away, sir. Commencing depressurization."_

He flicks the switch to activate all thrusters and immediately starts navigating them away from the enemy ship, but the angled slant of their ungainly retreat is slow in starting, and he sees the blinding flash of the exploding ship on the main viewer well before it feels like they've even started moving.

But the calculations don't lie, and within a second the force drives them backward far enough that they only get spun out of control for a short distance, which he's able to stop easily enough from the nav computer; certainly preferable to being nuked due to being unshielded in close proximity to a detonating photon torpedo.

Once they've stopped slinging wildly through dead space, he huffs out a breath into the smoke-charred air and just stares for a second, hardly able to believe they got out of that without a scratch.

Behind him, one of the burning consoles collapses on itself, sending a spray of sparks everywhere.

Well, relatively speaking, without a scratch.

"Bridge to Engineering. Everything in one piece down there?"

_"More or less, sir!"_

"Nice job, Scotty. Park it here and get that board back together, will you?"

He hears a chorus of relieved laughs, not the least of which is his overworked Chief Engineer's. _"Aye, sir, that we will. Repressurizing decks now, sir, and the lifts will be working in the next five minutes or I'll come up there meself with a rescue crew. I'll have a damage report for you shortly."_

"Good." He coughs again, well out of hearing of the comm. "Bridge out. Kirk to Sickbay."

_"Jim! My God, man, are you all right? The alarms goin' off down here say that whole place is on fire and the smoke levels are way above human safety!"_

"Bones, seriously, it’s fine. Quit overreacting."

_"You went from sitting in a refrigeration unit to a room **literally** going up in flames, you do not get to tell me when I am and am not overreacting!"_

_"He has a point. Why are you still up there."_

"Give Scotty half a minute to get the lifts working! Geez. Spock, be the voice of reason here, will you?"

_"Yes, Captain."_

"Thank you."

_"I too would prefer you not remain on the Bridge in its current hazardous condition."_

"Oh my God, I hate all of you."

He wheezes out a laugh that's borderline hysterical from relief, which is a huge mistake, because his body apparently decides that's its signal to try and expel one or both of his lungs right then and there. Ears ringing, he has a few woozy seconds to briefly wonder if it's actually possible to cough yourself into passing out before he finds out for himself.

Turns out, you can.

* * *

He screeches back into the land of the living nightmare looking at something closing chokingly over his mouth, and he has about ten whirlwind seconds of arm-flailing panic until finally one of his attackers that's not got him by an arm leans in through the haze of smoke, pulls off his own grotesque facial accoutrement, and thwaps him upside the head.

"For gods' sake, it's an oxygen mask, Jim!"

Oh.

He blinks through the smoke – wow, it really has gotten pretty dense in here, he didn't notice that before – and lets his shaking legs go out from under him like they've wanted to for the last however long it's been.

"Whoa, whoa, you stay standing until I know if I'm lookin' at hypothermia or smoke inhalation. Or both."

"Doctor."

"Fine, but you're carryin' him, not me."

"I have no objections."

"I do!"

"You lost the right to an opinion when you passed out before getting yourself off the Bridge. _Sir_. I told you not to make us come get you."

"Yeah, well. You're _bossy_ ," he mutters inelegantly, trying to get his eyes to stay open long enough to see the smoke slowly dissipate and turn into the stark white of a familiar turbolift.

"Ugh, it's following us in here. Computer, ventilation at twenty-five percent."

_"Unable to comply."_

"It hates me today," he observes truthfully, before yanking off the mask to expel a rough hacking cough that's forceful enough to yank his arm down from Spock's neck as he starts an ungainly slide down the wall, head spinning. But the oxygen has helped a tiny bit, and he can at least see straight, once the walls are back where they're supposed to be.

Walls that have three slightly hazy sets of worried eyes looking expectantly at him, like they just asked a question he was too out of it to hear.

"…Yeah, no," he rasps, brittle like broken glass, and shakes his head. "What?"

Uhura glances up at the other two and stands, moving to the wall comm to start punching in numbers.

He blinks some of the fog away and swats at the scanner whirring by his neck like a particularly angry medical insect. "Seriously?"

"Get that mask back on."

"I'm fine."

"You want me to clamp it to your face?"

He snaps it back on, more because he would actually like to feel like his lungs aren't being sat on by something huge and heavy. "We hear from the shuttles? They arrive at the rendezvous? It shouldn't have taken more than twenty minutes at Warp Two," he says, fogging up the mask.

"I thought you might ask that, I'm checking now," Uhura's amused voice comes from overhead. "If I find out, will you go quietly?"

He smirks. "Maybe."

Spock's eyeroll is legit 100% human, but he looks a lot better than he had hours earlier, freezing on the Bridge. "Due to the lack of science personnel currently aboard, Captain, I took the liberty of borrowing a small technician team from Engineering to inspect the wreckage of the enemy vessel in an effort to determine its origins."

He nods. "Good. I hate to destroy another culture's tech but we literally didn't have a choice, not without shields and weaponry."

"Agreed. It likely would have continued to fire until all targets were destroyed. I would conjecture this to be a directive in its master programming."

"Let me know what you find. And as soon as we have the engines back online, make –" He shoves Bones's hand away just in time to haul the mask off again and try his best to hack out a lung. "Okay, that hurts."

"You think? Next time, when I tell you to leave somewhere, leave, regulations be damned! You'll be lucky to not end up with pneumonia from this."

He sighs, plopping the mask back on. “Superblood, remember? I’m basically invincible.”

“That possibly premature conjecture is _not_ sufficient reason to test its medical limits.”

He snorts behind the mask, but sends his XO a duly chastened look of acknowledgment. It’s been a hell of a day, and he’s not in the mood to fight any of them.

"Here we go. The transmissions got lost when the main board was fried in that last power surge. All shuttles reported in safe upon arrival, minor damage to two but nothing non-repairable and no casualties." Uhura shuts off the computer and turns with a smile, ponytail flying. She palms the door sensor and it opens on a deserted Deck Six. "Now no excuses, go."

"Somebody's got to make a report to the 'Fleet, this is going to put us behind schedule for restocking at Starbase Twenty-Four."

"I will see to the report."

He squints at his First in fairly well-deserved skepticism, and Spock has the grace to blush. "I am aware of the issue of a controlled evacuation being disallowed except in cases of imminent shipwide destruction. My report will not be as…explicit, as those submitted in the past. Sir."

Now this he has to see.

"Well, Commander. I leave this mess in your capable hands then. Who knows, maybe you'll surprise me."

"It will not be submitted without your review, Captain."

He waves a careless hand, mostly because he's about to fall over from adrenaline rush-in-reverse. "Spock. I'm not worried."

But weirdly enough, he really isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long-range shuttlecraft equipped with small-scale warp drives were a Thing in the TNG-era, and because the AOS is more advanced in many ways than TOS I've chosen the personal headcanon of having its refit after STID include the addition of long-range shuttles, just for the versatility they offer. Pretty much everything else here is made up.


	2. Phaser Banks Set to Stun (We Have a Stun Setting??)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One specific but brief throwaway spoiler for Beyond. Spoilery plot point of sorts I stole from the TOS episode _Piece of the Action_ , which is one of the most delightfully lighthearted and amazing episodes of the original series and probably in my personal top five favorites.

" ** _We discovered that the political situation on planet L-4326-A was slightly less stable than we had been led to believe from our First Contact briefing (due we were told in the council chambers to very lucrative offers by the Klingon Empire to the primary insurgent faction)._**

**_This led to a brief period during which the_ ** **Enterprise _was out of contact with the landing party_** _(see transfer of command to Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Scott, Acting Captain's Log 2548.9). **The landing party was retrieved in its entirety less than six hours later, with the position of Planet L-4326-A remaining in a state of complete political unrest despite even the most unique of efforts from the**_ **Enterprise _to re-negotiate terms._**

_Official recommendation: Further investigation by a non-exploratory starship better equipped for a planet at war._

_Related Documents: **Medical Report 7119** : Landing Party Injuries; _Terran-Parallel Cultures and Predicted Outcomes of The Coup Mentality Among Underdeveloped Species _by Xenosociological Department II, U.S.S._ Enterprise _; Excerpt from **Captain's Log 2550.5** : Unofficial Recommendation to [directly quoted] 'Just Let the Damn Klingons Have This Psycho Planet, Then' by Captain James T. Kirk, currently on Medical Leave_."

* * *

While he's used to them having pretty bad luck by now, he's _not_ used to his senior staff almost getting killed wholesale on one single mission thanks to equal parts Federation misinformation and political unrest on a Second Contact mission that was supposed to be a freaking _cakewalk_.

And he's _pissed_.

He kicks aside a pile of broken timber and stares in consternation at the rubble beyond, only now visible out of the dust cloud. There's no way just the two of them are getting back to the council chambers that way, even if that was the wise move. Which it isn't, and he knows it, but the rest of his team is in there dealing with God knows what, assuming they're still alive to deal with it, and he should be in there, _damn it all to Dante's seven hells._

Behind him, he hears a muffled scream of frustration and turns around in time to see Uhura duck under the wild swing of one of the natives who'd betrayed them, clock him over the head with his own phaser rifle, and deftly snatch the dagger out of his belt as he falls, stuffing it down the front of her dress as she stalks back toward him, looking murderous.

It's equal parts hilarious and scary.

"We have to go," he says, gesturing at the remains of the corridor between them and what until five minutes ago had been some of the most ornate, vaulted council chambers he's ever seen.

She looks for a second – only a second – like she's going to argue, and then nods, always the officer before the partner of one of the officers likely buried on the other side of the rubble.

"There's no way we get out of the capital, or even out of the building, without being recognized, Captain," she says unnecessarily, before starting to root around the four natives they've dropped in the fracas. "Any native who's sided with a renegade Klingon is going to shoot a Starfleet officer on sight, especially if those bombs were meant to completely derail the treaty negotiations."

He nods absently, trying to figure out what indications there had been of the impending betrayal. He's usually better at this, suspecting something like this.

"It's done, just stop thinking about it. I specialize in communication, and I missed the signs too. If there were any."

Finally, he sighs in agreement, tears off his yellow tunic and tosses it (or what's left of it) away, leaving just the black under-tunic. At least he won't have that 'Fleet bulls-eye on his back while they try to run for it, although he’ll never pass as a native of this planet with his fair coloring and blue eyes. Uhura throws a padded beanie-like helmet and dark, somewhat gross and scruffy jacket of some kind at him courtesy of a dead native he doesn't even remember choking out in the initial fight for their lives after hell broke loose. She then walks a few paces down a cross-hallway and yanks down what looks like a lightweight wall-covering.

He shrugs the nasty thing over his shoulders – way too tight and it smells vaguely of incense and probably cow manure – and then realizes she's covering her head and hair like the native women do, not just tearing things off the walls for therapy. He stares in fascination as she deftly twirls the remaining fabric around her 'Fleet uniform until it's covered in some kind of weirdly legit-looking sari-like garment oddly similar to the native garb.

"Huh. Not bad."

"Not trying for a fashion statement here, but thank you. What about a working communicator?"

He rams the hat-thing on his head, hoping it covers enough of his hair to actually help. "I have mine and it's functional, but the signal's not getting through."

"They're probably jamming all comm grids. This was too well-executed not to be planned for weeks ahead of our arrival."

"We've got to get somewhere we can hole up and try to break through the block, then. Contact the 'Fleet and let them know what's happening down here, and get our people out somehow without breaking the Prime Directive."

Because the treaty didn't get signed, General Order One is still technically in effect; he can't interfere with the society at all. That means he can't stop their conflict, he can't try to gain a cease-fire, he can't even beam a search and rescue team back down in safety – they'll be mowed down just like the first ones, and he isn't allowed to retaliate. Technically, he should get out, call the 'Fleet, and leave the planet to the Klingons, wherever they may be. That's not happening, so…

How is he going to pull this off?

"I can probably hotwire a comm to the low-frequency intra-comm aboard ship if we get out of the capital and away from any other interference, Captain. But I can't bypass anything while we're in range of any other low frequency signals."

"We need to get going then."

"What about the rest of landing party?"

His lips tighten. "They know what to do, Lieutenant. This is a war zone now, and we have a responsibility to the Federation to get word out before any other actions can be taken." He also has a sneaking suspicion they were specifically targeting the Federation representatives, too, or at least taking advantage of the chaos to do so, at the instruction of their Klingon instigators; so they need to make sure someone in the group gets out to pass on that knowledge.

"Yes, Captain."

He knows the reversion to the titles is her way of keeping herself grounded in duty, not personal business; they've all resorted to the tactic at one point or another throughout the years. He returns the favor with a curt nod as he picks up another of the phaser rifles and slings it over one shoulder, then pockets a small hand weapon of some kind which he'll have to figure out how to use later. He can already tell he got a solid knock to the head in addition to whatever's going on in his mid-section so his aim probably isn't going to be 100% as it stands; the more weapons he has, the better their chances will be.

"Right, let's get moving. If we can hole up somewhere, great, but judging from that noise…" They've been hearing what sounds suspiciously like ground-to-air artillery for the last twenty minutes, ever since that first blast went off and brought what sounded like the entire government building complex down around their ears.

He can only pray that it didn't _literally_ , all come down. It was sheer chance that he and his Communications Chief had been in a different room down the hall trying to nail down a communications barrier issue with one of the council members after the dinner festivities had concluded. Otherwise, they'd all have been in the inner chambers when what he assumes was a bomb went off. They'd heard what sounded like the entire roof being blown off the building and then it literally just…crumbled. Which is overkill, since between one thing and another it's not likely the treaty negotiations would have continued tonight _regardless_. There was no need to bury his landing party – his family – under a mountain of stone pillars and timber.

Whoever in Command was responsible for their briefing? Telling them that the 'mild political unrest' the First Contact team had reported was supposedly totally under control? Is a dead man when he gets back to the ship.

If he makes it back.

* * *

Three hours, two narrow escapes, a ten-minute scuffle with insurgents and one very awkward incident where they had to pretend to be a couple making out in an alley to avoid being recognized later, he's able to hotwire and then steal what amounts to an ancient motorbike that probably shouldn't be carrying more than a child's weight, judging by the dangerous-sounding moaning coming from the engine by the time he brings it to a gravel-spraying stop outside the city at the edge of the spreading forest. Trees and woodlands actually cover 80% of this planet, a weird scientific anomaly that had fascinated the xenobotany teams from the beginning.

Unfortunately, it's this very fact that's the cause of the insurgency, probably; the unrest is due to the tree-dwelling population realizing that there's a much easier way of life and wanting to be part of it in the cities. The Klingons wanting to mow down the trees to get at the trilithium deposits below the planet's crust. And, of course, the snobby inhabitants of the cities not wanting any part of the 'apes' who have always dwelled apart in a different way of life.

Tale as old as time, and as unfortunately short-sighted as Terra's population had been for so many decades. He hopes this world doesn't almost destroy itself before figuring out how foolish they are for segregating people simply because they're _different_.

"How, exactly, did you manage to not kill yourself on Altamid?" he hears from behind him as he struggles out from behind the tiny control panel, his passenger having long since slid off with remarkable alacrity and much muttering about his driving skills.

"Everybody's a critic." A last yank and he nearly goes flying off the tiny bike, arms pinwheeling to stay on his feet. "And besides, I doubt this thing was meant for two people. Maybe you should lay off the iced mochas."

A snort, weary with exhaustion and what he knows has to be pain, but she smiles knowing what he's doing; neither of them need to be thinking about what they've left behind right now. "Just toss me that communicator."

"Not until you own up to whatever hit you in that last fight right before I swiped this thing," he counters, and shrugs when she glares at him in the twilight. "Stop trying to be a hero, Lieutenant."

"I'm fine."

"Damn straight you are, Spock's a lucky man. But that's not what I asked."

"Oh my _God_ , you are so annoying."

"Also correct. And you know I can totally out-annoy you, so spill it. Don't make me order you to report, Lieutenant."

She rolls her eyes, and flops down with a barely-concealed wince to sit against one of the nearby trees. "I don't know. Left shoulder. It's not dislocated, but it's wrenched at least. Don't you dare touch it, I will _castrate_ you."

He laughs, and ignores her, crouching to try and get a look in the light of the tiny flashlight on the communicator. The wrap-thing she was wearing got long since discarded, a safety hazard flying in the wind on that motorbike, and he can't see much swelling through her uniform dress, but when he just barely touches her upper arm he nearly does get a swift kick in an awkward place for his pains, just from her reflexive flinching.

"Okay, okay, got it, stop touching now. You're right, it's not dislocated. But you've probably torn something, if it hurts that much. Sure the arm's not broken? Collarbone?"

"Not collarbone at least, I'd have felt that. That last idiot just slammed me into the ground, he didn't twist my arm or anything. I landed wrong, that's all. It _can_ move, I just would rather not."

He nods, and starts taking off the soft jacket he'd stolen from the guard at the council chambers. "Good thing it's your left, at least."

"I suppose. Look, the temperature's dropped at least fifteen degrees, you don't – ugh, why do I bother."

"No idea. Besides, I'm not cold. Superblood, remember." The stomach-ache he's been trying to ignore is helping with that, actually; he's starting to sweat a little in fact. He finally gets the jacket torn into two pieces and then two more, enough to tie together and then sling the arm close to her body to at least prevent it moving around. "Sorry, DIY was never my strong suit, that'll have to do for now. Now, get this thing working," and he tosses her the comm from his pocket, "and maybe we can all still get out of this mess in one piece. You need me to be your hands?"

"Not yet, but I might at some point." She can still hold the comm with her immobile hand, and starts fiddling with the back casing with her right. "Give me a few."

"You got it. I'm going to go recon, yell if you need me before I get back."

Already engrossed, she nods but doesn't really pay attention when he slips away, takes a peek down both sides of the road, climbs to the top of the nearby knoll and looks out over the grassy countryside they just sped across, fleeing the destruction he can still see in the distance over the planet's solitary city. Even in the dying light the flashes and crashes of artillery are clearly visible and audible.

Whatever happened, the rest of his people are still in the thick of it, somewhere. Surely, if they were…if the worst had happened, wouldn't he feel it? Somehow? Surely Fate wouldn't be cruel enough to take almost everyone he loves from him like this in one fell swoop, after all this. They've been through way too much for what amounts to an amateur terrorist cell to succeed where insane dictators and super-soldiers have failed.

He flinches at what looks like a huge lightning strike but what he knows is just air-to-ground weaponry, and shakes his head, stomach roiling. So…it probably wasn't a good idea to chug that goblet of ceremonial wine to begin the treaty negotiations without letting Bones triple check what was in it, especially now that they know the natives never intended to keep the treaty. Thank goodness it had been “only for the leader,” nobody else on his team had gotten any. Because given the suspicious nausea he's starting to feel…yeah, that might have been his worst mistake all night.

They weren’t taking any chances, were they? Overkill, much?

Shivering, he hurries back down the hill and across the small path to the tree-line, keeping a watchful eye out for any straggling insurgents.

He steps on a stick as he rounds a tree and finds himself with a phaser about two inches from some portions of his anatomy he'd really like to keep in functioning order.

" _Holy_ – put that down! Geez." He edges sideways as she glares at him, then lowers the weapon. Even with one good hand, she's still just as dangerous as any of his Security men. "How's it coming?"

"Slowly, but I think I can break into the Engineering low-frequency channel here in a minute. Assuming it's not in-use, though."

"When is it in-use?"

"When someone's in the Jefferies tubes. The signal's usually too patchy in there so they go to mobile comms. Usually only when repairs are being made."

"There's no reason to be doing those while in orbit, so hopefully we'll get through."

"What exactly do you plan to do, Captain?"

He glares back in the direction of the warring city. "Oh, I am going to raise _hell_ , Lieutenant. They pissed off the wrong starship captain. And I'm going to make sure both they and the Klingons know."

* * *

It's another hour before Uhura manages to finally splice the comm into one of the low-frequency Engineering channels, and another ten minutes before someone realizes it's not just static and gets it transferred to Scotty, who's currently with Sulu on the Bridge trying to make sense of what's happening on the planet below. They're beamed up with little enough trouble, and Jim sends her straight to Sickbay (meaning he corrals two helpful yeomen who are able to drag her off since she only has one good arm, despite her very vocal and he suspects insubordinate protests in at least three languages) while he heads for the Bridge, for now ignoring the growing indications that yeah, he really shouldn't have drunk something he didn't have one of his people scan in depth first. Especially given that the natives obviously don't want them around, not that he knew that at the time. Refusing would've been the height of rudeness and might have derailed their negotiations, but at least he wouldn't have gotten freaking poisoned. Again.

What is he, 0 for 3 now?

He steps out of the turbolift and snaps out an irritated "Somebody better give me a report, STAT!" that has way more bite in it than anybody on this Bridge deserves.

From the once-over his helmsman gives him as he scrambles out of the chair to vacate it, he's obviously being forgiven on the grounds of _wow you look like hell, sir._ From the corner of his eye, he sees whoever's manning the Ops station lean over and say something to the ever-present yeoman, who hurries into the turbolift.

"Captain, we can't establish contact with anyone in the landing party, nor is anyone on the planetary council answering our hails."

"Are you picking up signals from anyone's comms, Mr. Sulu?" he asks quietly, not loudly enough for most of the Bridge crew to hear.

"No, sir, not even with their manual calibrations." Sulu nods over at the Engineering station, where Scotty and Chekov are bent over the console discussing something. "Captain…"

He scrubs a hand over his face, closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. "Go on."

"Sir, we can't even pick up life-sign readings. And we should be able to do that even if they're jamming comms transmissions, bio-scans are on a totally different frequency system."

His stomach turns again, and not from the poison probably working its way slowly through his system. "You've tried patching in the xeno-medical mainframe for precise readings?"

"Aye, sir."

"And you tried scanning for Vulcan life-signs? Human signs are pretty similar to the natives, they might just blend together."

Sulu's eyes are a little wild with controlled panic. "Yes, sir."

"Is it possible the heavy artillery over the city is disrupting the bio-scan signals?"

"Aye, Captain," Scotty's voice comes from his left, and he glances up to see his CE moving toward them, eyebrows drawn. "But I canna lie to you, Captain, it is a very small chance indeed. If anyone on the landing party…well, sir, we should really be picking up _something._ Sir."

His hands tighten on the armrests of his chair, loud enough the synthetic leather creaks in protest. "Hail the council again, Mr. Scott."

"Sir – "

" _Now_."

"Aye, sir." Scott nods to the young lieutenant at the Comms station, and a few switches get flipped. "Channel open, sir, but we have no indication of reception. I dinna believe they are even receiving."

Behind him, the lift opens to reveal the same yeoman, who hurries up to him with…bless her, a spare uniform tunic, at least he can stop looking like he showed up to the Bridge half-dressed.

"Maybe their communications array has been knocked out or jammed too," Sulu suggests.

"Thank you, Yeoman. I don't care what the reason is, Mr. Sulu, I want our people out of there and us out of this star system in the next thirty minutes or there's going to be hell to pay, but there are so many regulations dictating how much we can't go back down there or interfere with their stupid war." He tugs the hem of the tunic straight and glares at the viewscreen for a few moments, weighing how big a hole he wants to dig here. "Mr. Scott, get down to Engineering."

"…Aye, Captain." Scott's too good an officer to question him, only tosses the padd he's carrying at the nearest redshirt and darts toward the lift, deftly skirting a science tech on his way.

He presses the comms switch. "Bridge to Security."

_"Security, Lieutenant Marple here."_

"Lieutenant, gather two squads of your people and Medical who have search and rescue experience and report to Transporter Room Two in fifteen minutes."

_"Roger that, sir."_

"Captain, regulations aside, you're not thinking about beaming back down into a war zone!"

"Not as such, no," he replies calmly, pressing the comm again. "Mr. Scott, are you in Engineering?" He glances up, and motions for Sulu to take his seat again. The young man nods and snags Chekov by the arm as he passes, both of them replacing the two at the front console a moment later.

_"Aye, Captain. What exactly d'ye have in mind?"_

"Are you capable of modifying one of our phaser banks to a stun setting?"

Half the Bridge crew turns to stare at him, and he makes a shooing motion with his hand for them to get back to their work.

_"Ehm…I don't see why not, sir. 'Twill take a few minutes, though, sir."_

"You have ten. Get moving."

 _"Aye, sir."_ He hears what sounds very much like creative Andorian swearing before the comm cuts off.

Behind him, the lift door opens and disgorges his Communications Chief, arm tightly angled and bound across her chest to prevent any movement.

"Why are you up here?"

She merely raises an eyebrow at him, and then boots the Comms lieutenant out of her chair with a single look. The young man wisely scrambles to a seat three consoles away and waits for orders.

"Ugh. Fine. Try to hail the council again. Tell them this is their final warning before I move on to a more drastic form of diplomacy."

"Aye, sir." She flicks a switch and adjusts a couple of knobs, which the kid next to her watches intently. Adjusting an earpiece with her single good hand, she cocks her head for a moment to listen. "Captain, I doubt anyone's even on the other end of this, I'm getting too much interference for it to be an open and functional channel."

"See if you can patch into any of the public networks and get that message across, it may save my neck later if I can prove we broadcasted it and it was just ignored." He wipes sweat off his forehead, tugs the collar of his shirt away from his neck. The pain in his stomach's getting worse, and he feels way too warm. They need to get out of here fast, so he can crash in Sickbay without freaking anyone out.

"I'll do my best, sir."

He flashes her a quick smile of gratitude and then hauls himself to his feet with a weary grunt, pounds the switch for Engineering with a fist. "Scotty, report."

_"One phaser bank, locked and loaded on neural stun, sir. Wide beam dispersal only though, sir, I canna give you any kind of aiming precision. And it will probably not keep a human out for longer than, say, ten minutes at most, sir."_

"Even better. Now then, Mr. Sulu, Mr. Chekov."

"Keptin?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Stun every living thing in that city and its airspace."

* * *

"Sir…isn't firing on a planet, even with ship's weaponry at a non-kill setting…y'know…illegal?"

He half-turns and fixes the Security lieutenant who's spoken with a look. The poor guy's already getting more than one elbow from his peers, who are either facepalming or rapidly making themselves scarce in the wreckage.

"Lieutenant…Barclay, is it? Recently promoted from one of the phaser crews, correct?"

"Aye, Captain." The young man straightens to attention. "I worked in search and rescue on Colony Seventeen, sir, that's why Mr. Giotto pulled me for this mission, sir."

"Well, Lieutenant, you know your regulations. It's quite illegal. In fact, it's also illegal to modify a starship's weaponry to a stun setting like we just did in order to commit the equally illegal action of firing on the planet." The young man's eyes widen. "Any other questions?"

"Uh. Negative, sir."

"Excellent. Now move your ass, we have people to find in this hell-hole, and we’re on the clock here."

"Yes, sir!"

"He won't be a problem, Captain," Marple mutters as he passes, hauling an emergency pack over one shoulder. "I'll see to it."

He smiles despite the situation. "I wasn't worried, Lieutenant. About that, at least." Worried about the fact that they've not been able to get a signal reading from any of the landing party, yes. They're close enough to the former council chambers, he should be picking up something from the landing party's emergency transponders if they were able to activate them. Granted, there could easily be interference on the ground, and they could have been damaged in the building collapse.

Or none of them could have survived the collapse.

He swallows hard against a sudden rush of nausea that's only half caused by the toxin which he suspects his increased activity is making spread quicker. He should have said something before now; the emergency kits all carry standardized anti-toxins but he's allergic to one of the primary components, that's why Bones carries his own personal kit everywhere they go. The Jim Kirk Special, he'd laughingly called it once – but it's saved his neck multiple times.

That kit's buried under six feet of stone and timber on the other side of this massive wreckage of what was a beautiful council hall with thirty-foot high vaulted ceilings. Buried along with its owner, his First Officer, and five other personnel from Sciences and Communications.

His wrist-comm chirps, squawks a scratchy, garbled something he can't understand due to interference, and goes dead again, like it has been this whole time; their comms don't work. It chirps twice rapidly, then a second later again; obviously someone trying to communicate knowing the grid is down.

Likely that means the first rescue party, having beamed down a good six minutes prior to his second, has found something – someone, he corrects himself firmly. He breaks into a sprint the last hundred meters and rounds the corner after clambering through the hole in the debris his Engineering team are still shoring up securely to find someone in a dusty maroon uniform being given oxygen by the Medical team while there's a flurry of excited red-shirted personnel behind them running around like ants on a potato chip.

"Lieutenant," he manages to gasp out – he's in better shape than this, this is embarrassing – as he skids to a stop, crouches in front of the young Corrollian officer from Comms. Corrollian nervous systems are much more quick to recover from stun forces, of course he'd be wide awake now; all three eyes blink in recognition at him from over the oxygen mask. They'd expected humans to just be groggy right about this time, and the natives should take another ten or fifteen minutes to come around; by then they should have their people out – one way or another – and be long gone.

"He's actually fine, Captain, we heard a loud banging and found he was trying to chisel his way out of what looked like a sort of pocketed cave-in," the nurse overhead says, shaking her blonde head. "Bumps and bruises, nothing extremely serious."

"That's great to hear," he manages between heaving breaths. Lieutenant Den'Rho grabs his arm and shakes it, reaches up to remove the oxygen mask.

"Leave that on, are you crazy!" The screech overhead is so Bones-like he has to laugh, the sound almost hysterical as he still is trying to catch his breath.

There's a commotion behind him and he turns on his heels, to see a flurry of activity near the site where he assumes they'd yanked out the young Comms lieutenant. A couple of blue-garbed dust and debris-covered figures emerge – actually under their own steam, his people are alive! – and then…two more, coughing and covered in a fine layer of dust, and then a couple of redshirts supporting another between them…wait, are all of them…

He scrambles to his feet despite a sudden bout of dizziness and manages to close the gap between the now whooping Security team, skids to a stop in front of his still somewhat dazed-looking First Officer and totally half-asleep Chief Medical Officer – who are both completely unharmed, from the look of them, just recovering from the effects of a mild neural stun.

"Ehh, to hell with it," he decides aloud, and jumps at both of them in a one-armed-each hug.

Bones yowls in his ear, obviously still feeling the stun effects, and Spock actually does this weird squeak-and-flail thing that's hilarious enough that it wakes up the rest of his Science team because they all start laughing.

"We thought you were dead," he murmurs, low enough that the rest of the crew can't hear. Finally he steps back, swallows hard. Tries to pull himself back together, ignores the way the room's started to tunnel down to just this little group; adrenaline drain, obviously. "Anyway, I'm not arguing with a miracle. But _how_ did everyone survive that? That room was so small, we were sure everything had just been obliterated inside."

McCoy's more awake now, obviously, because he pinches his forehead with one hand and stabs a pointing finger in Spock's general direction with the other. "If the _Enterprise_ ever starts a baseball team, Jim? Y'got yourself a pitcher. Right here."

He blinks. "Do what now?"

"Captain, it was freaking amazing," Rodgers from Xenobio pipes up dreamily, still leaning heavily on a much-amused Engineer.

"What was."

"He nerve-pinched that blasted dignitary and then ran down the room and threw the bomb _up into that damn bell tower_ to let it explode, Jim."

He stares at his First in amazement, and receives a bored eyebrow in return.

"Those ceilings –"

"Are fifteen-point-four meters high. It was purely a matter of calculated physics, and as you are well aware I possess a much greater strength than that of an average human," Spock says, in a tone that clearly states he cannot _believe_ the stupid humans are impressed by this. "Such an act funneled much of the explosive force upward into the six-inch synthesteel walls of the bell chamber, while at the same time granting the landing party an additional few seconds in which to act prior to the collapse of the chamber."

"During which you'd of course calculated the one place most likely to have an air pocket when the support beams collapsed."

"Naturally."

Jim shakes his head, still reeling. "You're amazing."

Spock's ears turn a weird shade of olive. He then pales, and looks around, as if only just remembering something.

"She's fine, Spock," he says, putting out a remonstrating hand. It's shaking a little, but thankfully no one seems to notice. "She's on the Bridge trying to break the comms lockdown."

He receives a grateful look, and his First relaxes again, looking only inestimably weary. The room suddenly does a lazy spin around him, and he sways, pinching his nose to try and steady his vision.

"Jim?"

"How're you doing from the stun force, Bones?"

"I'm fine, Jim, why?"

"And we got everybody out okay?"

"Aye, sir," Marple calls from a few feet away. "All present and accounted for. Beginning return to beam-out coordinates."

"Oh, good. Spock, tell Sulu to take the ship out of orbit and book it out of this system, yeah? I'll be in Sickbay having my stomach pumped.” The look of consternation and alarm on Spock's face is quickly superseded by Bones's _WTF Jim and why did you not say something until now_ growl. 

He starts backing away from the mounting explosion that's about to happen, and watches in amusement as a half dozen officers skitter away before their stalking CMO like frightened birds.

“And do _not_ write this up without checking your story with me, because I broke like sixteen regulations coming back down here!" He calls as he’s dragged away toward the beam-in point by two blue-shirts, tricorder already whirring over his head.

He's got some serious medical issues going on, some serious explaining to do to Starfleet Command, and a totally botched mission to chalk up in their roster…and yet he's still probably the happiest he's been in a long time.

Funny how that works.


	3. Taking One for the ‘Fleet (With No Dying This Time Around, TYVM)

**_"We intercepted a Priority One medical emergency call from the medico-research facility on Phoenicia Omicron-II. As the_ ** **Enterprise _was the only ship in the sector available for response, this necessitated Captain Kirk's departure from the Fenchurian celebratory functions four-point-seven hours earlier than planned, whereupon the_ Enterprise _departed for Phoenicia with all speed._**

_Related documents:_

_**Mission log 783** filed by Komack, James, Admiral, U.S.S. _Endeavor _; **Counter-log 783a** with correct time-stamps filed by Spock, First Officer, U.S.S. _Enterprise _. **Official Reprimand No. 2** filed by Komack, James, Admiral, U.S.S. _Endeavor _: Lt. Matthew Decker – Appropriation of Official Channels for Personal Usage; **Official Complaint No. 177** filed by McCoy, Leonard H., Chief Medical Officer, U.S.S. _Enterprise _: Admiral James Komack – Appropriation of Ship's Captain for Personal Usage."_

* * *

So, after Khan, he basically becomes invincible.

He gets a super-fast metabolism, all his allergies basically evaporate, he can run on way less sleep a night now, he falls once from a catwalk in Engineering two stories up and only barely fractures an arm, and he never even like, _sneezes_ anymore.

Until now.

Apparently it never occurred to any of them, Medical or otherwise, that when they regenerated every cell in his body, it basically hit a reset button on everything about him, Medical or otherwise. And it never occurred to him to get his childhood vaccinations again because, well, _childhood_ , and _superblood_ , and he was busy trying to do things like learn to walk again and pee on his own and a try to convince the Admiralty and his command staff that he wasn't a ticking time bomb.

So yeah, childhood vaccinations. If they'd known they might have been able to knock Khan out of commission just by injecting the guy with the Katarran ringworm or measles moribillivirus it might have made their jobs a whole lot easier.

Anyway.

Vaccinations.

He didn't get them again, at least not all of them. Bones had tested his new and improved blood for antibodies and gave him a panel accordingly, not wanting to overload his system with anything unnecessary that could react against the serum. He was supposed to be immune to a lot of things.

But apparently Khan's blood isn't as immune as they assumed to every _thing_ they assumed, or it’s just adapted over the last few years, or something. Who knows.

Really, he should have just been prepared for it, given the luck he seems to have. Only he would become violently ill less than an hour before they're scheduled to begin the most important conference call of the yearly shipping cycle with a prospective Federation member. Violently ill, no less, with a disease no one on a civilized Federation world would be able to contract because every child is freaking _inoculated_ against it before age 6.

"You've got to be joking."

He'd laugh if he wasn't trying not to cry because everything _hurts_ , like even his _eyeballs_ hurt, and why the _hell_ are the lights always so bright on a Bridge with literally hundreds of reflective surfaces and décor inspired by a freaking ice planet _why_.

Someone behind him orders the lights dimmed by ten percent, so he must have said at least some of that out loud. He would hug whoever it was if he could, you know, get up off the floor, but that's not really in the cards just yet. One thing at a time. Not hurling, being the most important right now until Bones’s anti-nausea hypo takes effect.

"I wish I was, Jim. How you managed to catch this, I have no idea, but it's too late now to even do damage control. Beta Canaran 'flu has a two-week incubation period before it even shows the first symptoms, so it's too late at this point to do anything but ride it out." Bones's tone is light, out of respect for the dozen crewmen who are in varying stages of trying-not-to-look-like-they're-eavesdropping around the upper Bridge, but Jim can tell this is his freaking-out face. "I should've just blanket vaccinated you for everything a child would've gotten throughout its first twelve years at least, Jim."

"Uh, that's like sixty vaccines all at once, Bones. And I've seen your gentle hand at them. Hard pass."

"You just _passed_ out. On your own Bridge, genius."

"Hey, I did not. I just…sat down unexpectedly."

"Wery unexpectedly."

"On the floor," Sulu adds helpfully.

"Shut up. Spock, how much time have I got before this call with Admiral what's-his-name." He covers his eyes with both hands, trying to halt the pounding in his head.

"Less than ten minutes, sir. And it is with Admiral Komack. Unfortunately."

He peeks through his fingers, because to not get a specific minute-second combo _and_ a very human bit of sarcasm at the end there…yeah, Spock's freaked. Well, Jim did kind of hit the science station when he fell, probably scared the poor guy half to death.

He blows out a slow, controlled breath to try and control the fading nausea deep in his stomach. This call shouldn't take more than thirty minutes, as it's just a formality to cement the agreement already negotiated on the planet last week by the formal negotiating party. The _Enterprise_ is basically the interplanetary equivalent of a third-party witness to the Admiral's primary contact, required not by Federation law but by the laws of the planet they're trying to induct into the Federation. It's a weird concession, but they've made weirder ones to planets they need quick access to in the name of politics – and the rich dilithium deposits on this one necessitate the _Enterprise_ 's involvement as the only constitution-class ship in this sector, to satisfy the planet's request for another witness to the agreements.

He just has to last a half-hour in that chair, and then he can go crash. "'Kay. Let's do this. Then I promise to be good and go to Sickbay." He gives McCoy a warning look when he sees a vehement protest forthcoming. "I don't have a choice, Bones, this call isn't optional. I bail on this and there's hell to pay with Command."

"I am capable of handling Command, Captain."

"You will do nothing of the kind, Commander." He motions with weak grabby hands, and finally is reluctantly hauled to his feet between the two of them. "It's _Komack_ , Spock," he says in an undertone, to not be overheard by the junior officers. Spock's minute sigh is answer enough. "You know he hates us both. Chances are if I don't show, he's just as likely to retaliate on the _Enterprise_ as refuse to proceed with only you on the call."

"Indeed."

"I wouldn't put it past him to cancel our shore leave next week just out of spite, and I'm not chancing that. It's been a hell of a six months and the crew _need_ that leave."

"What they do _not_ need is you collapsing up here for real because your fever's at 39 degrees and climbing!"

"Keep your voice down, Bones." He slowly removes himself from Spock's iron grip, nodding to show he's no longer dizzy like he was just before nosediving fifteen minutes ago. "Now wait for me in Sickbay, you know you can't be on the Bridge without clearance during a call like this. Last thing I need is Komack calling me out on regulation-breaking during a diplomatic incident."

"I'll _cause_ a diplomatic incident if I don't have you on a bed down there within the hour, Jim. And if that doesn't happen? I'm holdin' you responsible." A bony finger pokes Spock in the chest hard enough to make him rock backward a step or two, whereupon he receives a silent yet highly communicative eyebrow.

He smiles shakily, and climbs up to collapse in his chair, giving a reassuring nod toward the two at the front console. Sulu's pointed look clearly says how very little confidence he has in Jim's ability to _remain_ in that chair without falling over, but then again he's always been full of surprises. This will be no exception.

Thirty minutes, give or take. He can get through that.

* * *

Murphy's law, thy name is _Enterprise_.

"Captain, I strongly object to this endeavor."

"Believe me, Spock, not as strongly as I object to it. And I honestly do not have the energy to argue with you about it right now." He collapses onto his bed as the room spins in a dizzying circle, wavering like the horizon during a heat wave on a Midwest summer day. Head drooping, he closes his eyes to try and banish the vertigo, then opens them again, blinking slowly. "I don't have a choice." He fusses weakly at the still-unfastened collar of the stifling gold dress jacket. "You heard Komack, his threat was pretty clear." God, why can they not make a uniform that isn't so freaking _hot_ , and why will his fingers not work.

He doesn't need a Medical officer to tell him that his fever's like, through the ceiling and halfway back to Terra by now, but that's irrelevant to the task at hand, unfortunately. The stimulant Bones doesn't know yet that he conned a nurse into giving him an hour ago should be sufficient to keep him on his feet for the remainder of this hellish evening, but the pseudo-hangover is going to be hell in about four hours.

A blue blur in front of him startles him into lifting his head, and it's probably not good that he sort of drifted away there for a minute. Spock's long fingers are fixing the stupid hooks on the jacket, eyes dark with concentration and brows drawn into an angry line. "Jim, I do not believe this is wise," his First says quietly.

He tries to smile. "That makes two of us." Spock finishes, sits back on his heels in front of him with a tense expression. "But we both know I don't have a choice. I'm just going to have to pull through it somehow."

"I understand your reasoning for enduring the Admiral's orders rather than informing him of your condition, but I can assure you that your crew would much prefer you risk their shore leave rather than your own health, Captain."

"Well, that is my decision to make, Mr. Spock, not theirs." He stands, blinks for a second as the room flickers in a hazy, mirage-like image, and then coalesces. He inhales slowly, then exhales, imagining the oxygen clearing the fog from his brain and nausea from his stomach. "Just the same…keep your communicator on you for the next six hours, yeah?"

"I had planned to do so."

"Good, good. Hopefully Bones doesn't find out where I've gone unless some idiot decides to tell him."

"That, I had _not_ planned to do."

"Smart Vulcan."

* * *

The ceremonial post-call dinner had not been in the original plans, obviously. The dread he'd felt when the thirty-minute conference call on the Bridge had concluded successfully, only to then end with Komack abruptly volunteering him to be one of the Federation representatives at the planet's banquet that evening – with the planetary representative still on the line and visibly excited about the fact – could not even be described. He had about thrown up right then and there, and had only refrained because _he is the captain_ , _damn it_ , and he will act like it even when he'd rather just go somewhere and basically curl up and die.

Komack signed off without even giving him a chance to plead for mercy, and he knows better than to ever ask for it when the man himself is going to be in attendance tonight; there's nothing for this but to tough it out. He's taken one for his ship before, this is just part of the job.

It's a sucky part of it on days like this, though, there's no denying that.

Beta Canaran 'flu isn't deadly, isn't even actually serious unless your system is already compromised or you're very old or young; but it's a pretty miserable illness, producing dangerously high fevers in its early stages and the usual violent vomiting, chills, headaches, sometimes respiratory issues and other 'flu-like symptoms in its later stages. Jim's hoping to be back on board before anything other than the current fever really takes hold, and hopefully he can get by with not really eating much during the meal.

Trying to schmooze like he's supposed to at a function like this when he can't even see straight and the world keeps revolving in a slow, sloooooow circle every so often? Not easy. Also trying to dodge Komack seems to be a full-time job as well, and why in the world are there two hours of elbow-rubbing before the dinner is underway?

He's going to die before it even starts.

And then, horror of horrors, he finds himself cornered in a too-warm garden by Komack and one of the planet's dignitaries, a chatty young female Fenchurian who seems to take zero social clues based on the fact that he stumbles over every word and steadily edges away from her advances simply because her heavy perfume is making him want to hurl. Komack is obviously on his third glass of whatever-that-stuff is, crowding him too, and he is debating the merits of just saying to hell with it and puking on the both of them, when there's a sudden swirl of bright lights a few meters away – a transport beam.

What in the world?

All three of them turn to look, and he blinks when it coalesces into Spock's unmistakable form. But he's not in his dress uniform or traditional Vulcan robes, so he's not coming for moral support at this ceremonial banquet.

Weirdness.

"Commander," Komack says, in a tone that clearly says a much more impolite sentiment. Komack has never liked Spock, mostly because Spock's always helped cover Jim's ass when it needs it and the man's never been able to pin so much as an out-of-place report on his captaincy thanks to having the best First Officer in the Fleet.

(It might also have to do with the fact that right after Khan, Komack tried to poach Spock to the _Endeavor_ using the very stupid tactic of saying Jim was likely to get himself killed again within a year, whereupon Spock basically told him he could fly into a black hole and if he needed assistance Spock would be happy to compute the fastest trajectories for him. _Sir_.)

"Admiral, my apologies for the intrusion. Good evening, Captain. Madam Chancellor."

The woman is clearly smitten, waving her six arms in the traditional greeting of her people with much more enthusiasm than she'd shown Jim earlier in the evening.

"Is everything all right with the ship, Mr. Spock?" Much as he loves her, he almost hopes Spock says no, because he might be able to bail on this nightmare.

"Sir, the _Enterprise_ is unharmed," his First reassures him.

He probably shouldn't feel disappointed to hear that.

"However, we have picked up a Priority One distress call from a small Federation world in the Phoenicia system, a scientific colony settled on the orbital satellite of one of our newest Federation members. As the only starship of constitution-class size in the sector, we would be the logical choice to respond to the call and I thought it necessary to retrieve you for that purpose, with the Admiral's permission."

"Oh, you must go, Captain!" The young woman breathes, arms waving in distress. "Your Federation is so important to such new members as ourselves!"

"Sir?" He looks back at Komack, who scowls at him over top of the wine glass. However, protocols are protocols, and he obviously cannot ask the _Enterprise_ to refuse a Priority One distress emergency.

"Yes, yes, Kirk, go along. I'll expect a full report when your mission is logged, mind."

"Of course, sir." A wave of dizziness hits him suddenly, and he takes a not-so-subtle step backward into Spock's personal space, feeling a subtle hand on his back for support in an instant. "Madam, it was a pleasure."

"Likewise, Captain. Commander."

"Mr. Scott, two to beam up," Spock's voice behind him filters through the ringing in his ears, and a minute later his vision tunnels into a cloud of sparkling particles.

When it un-clouds, his knees buckle and he lands with a thump on the transporter pad, whistling out a shaky breath of relief.

That breath turns into an extremely unfortunate episode in which everyone in the vicinity learns what he had for lunch, breakfast and last night's dinner, but at least his aim is good enough that it ends up behind the transporter pad and not on himself or anyone else.

"Someone shoot me. I’m so sorry."

"Uh…welcome aboard, sir?"

He sends a half-hearted glare toward the transporter console but ultimately decides it's not worth the effort. "Thank God we made it off-planet before that started. I don't care if you made this whole thing up, you get a commendation in your file, Spock," he mutters, flopping onto his back and closing his eyes.

Spock's tiny chuff of air is the closest he will ever get to a laugh.

"Wait, so you _did_ make it up?"

"Unfortunately not, Captain," Scotty chirps like, way too cheerfully. Jim notices with vengeful irritation that he stays safely behind the transporter shield to do it, too, although given the fact that he just projectile vomited halfway across the room, he can't really blame the man. "The Commodore is still holding on Priority Channel One, gentlemen, an' she's ready to go when y'give the word."

He counts to five in an effort to reel his thoughts (and what's left of his stomach lining) back into some semblance of logical order, and then rolls painfully to his hands and knees. "Well, consider the _word_ given," he mutters, waving a feeble hand in the general direction of his Chief Engineer. "Now for pity's sake keep Bones out of my way for the next fifteen minutes, yeah? I just literally do not have the energy."

"Oh, aye," is the doleful reply that follows his less-than-dignified exit into the corridor. He blinks for a few seconds as he finds himself alone, only to then be nearly bowled over by the hasty exit of his First Officer, who – bless him – is carrying a random washcloth and a glass of water he had to have paused long enough to replicate from the small emergency unit on the wall of the transporter room.

He takes both with a hoarse whisper of thanks as they enter the turbolift at the end of the corridor. "Above the call of duty, here, Spock," he mutters into the towel, trying to breathe slowly and control the nausea. "So what is this distress call about, anyway? A Priority One is never a good sign."

"The colony in question seems to merely require medical supplies due to a shipment which went missing off the Mutara nebula some three weeks ago. While it does not seem to be an immediate emergency, it is certainly an urgent situation which could become one rapidly should the wrong pharmaceutical components be needed and not available to their experimental bio-engineering team. The fact that it is a Priority One call stems from the fact that two of the medical compounds needed are not naturally-occurring anywhere in the Phoenicia system."

"Sounds like an over-reaction to me, but I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth in this case. They're not equipped with replication units to synthesize an artificial version?"

"They are, but apparently the baseline materials needed for replication of the medicinal components were destroyed in a freak accident on the planet some twenty-four hours ago."

"Ah."

"As the _Enterprise_ is the only ship in the sector to hear the distress call, and with a store of the components needed plus the speed required to reach the colony in a reasonable amount of time –"

"We draw the lucky numbers, got it. I can't say I'm sorry, because it'll take what, a week to get there?"

"Five days, eighteen hours and twenty-four minutes at Warp Four."

"Just enough time to kick this thing's ass." He manages a smile, and presses the button on the wall for the recycling chute, chucking the glass and towel down it just as the doors open. "Once more unto the breach then, my friend?"

* * *

He stays where he is for a minute after the screen goes black, fading back into the starry simulation it throws onto the screen while they're at warp, and for a few very awkward seconds just sort of stares into nowhere, half-slouched and with his head resting heavily on one hand.

He seriously could just fall right smack out of this chair and happily curl up on the floor here and now, no joke.

"Um. Captain."

"Oh my god, _what_." He blinks, and belatedly realizes he probably should exhibit a little more professionalism when there's a nervous little snicker somewhere over to his right, buried in the depths of one of the upper consoles.

Sulu's face is a clear battle between trying not to laugh and genuine concern. "Captain, you look like hell. Get off the Bridge."

The same small laugh from whoever it is turns into a choking cough, and he raises an eyebrow. Some newbie's getting free entertainment at his expense. "Watch your tone, Mr. Sulu."

"My apologies, Captain. Get off the Bridge, _sir_."

"That will do, Mr. Sulu." Spock's voice over his head is anything but a reprimand, and his helmsman gives them both a nod and swivels his chair back toward the screen with a look that's far too satisfied. "Captain, we discussed the amount of time which will elapse before we reach the colony, as well as the fact that you will spend that time recuperating in your quarters."

"I'm pretty sure we didn't discuss that last bit like, at all." He glares as best he can from hazy vision up at his XO, and finally decides the effort of rolling his eyes isn't worth it because ow, ow, _ow_. "Also. Mr. Chekov."

"Yes, Keptin?"

"I'm sick, not an _idiot_. Matthew Decker is your cabin-mate, isn't he?"

There's a ripple of hastily shushed whispers that flicker around the Bridge like an almost visible soundwave, which would be answer enough even if the kid's ears hadn't turned bright red under that mop of hair he's trying to grow out for some bizarre reason.

A vague cough, and a furtive glance exchanged with his seat-mate. Sulu shoots an eye over his shoulder and then hastily looks away, trying to look natural and failing miserably.

"Mr. Chekov, I'm no Vulcan but I do have most of the rosters memorized since, you know, I have to sign off on every single assignment." He pinches the bridge of his nose as his stomach roils again. "When I can see straight we're going to be having a little _refresher_ about what's appropriate information to be passing on to people not authorized for Bridge duty."

"Aye, Keptin." The brat doesn't look in the least repentant about the fact.

"Did you really think I was too sick to make the connection between the kid and Commodore Teresa _Decker_ being the one to order us to this planet whatever-its-name-is?"

" _Nyet_ , Keptin."

He smacks Spock's leg with the back of his hand.

"And were _you_ aware of the fact that some random kid on D Deck is probably responsible for getting his _mother_ to exaggerate a medical distress call to pull us off Komack's pet project?"

Spock looks shifty as hell.

He laughs, which abruptly turns into a hacking cough that nearly – not quite, thank goodness – turns into another puking spell but for his almost superhuman self-control. It does, however, basically toss him out of his chair onto one knee with its vehemence as he tries desperately to keep his lungs where they belong.

Ow ow _ow_. This _sucks_.

"…kbay," he hears someone from behind him as his ears fade from ringing to just a dull whine. "Doctor McCoy, you are needed on the Bridge."

"No Medical," he protests weakly, hacking into his elbow before just getting comfortable on the floor. Maybe he can just take a nap here and they'll leave him alone.

"Your input was not requested on the matter. Sir."

"Seriously, 'm good here, just don' step on me," he mutters, shivering. The cleaning bots have good sensors, they can sweep around him.

Someone's freezing fingers are on his face, and he jumps, startled, eyes flying open. " _Holy_ –"

"Sorry, sir. He's burning up, Commander." Sulu's eyes flick up over his head, obviously saying something without really saying something. "Are we _sure_ this thing's not deadly?"

" _He_ is sitting. Right. Here." He stabs a finger angrily in the vague direction of the shirt that looks yellow, not blue.

"You're not sitting, you're sprawling."

"To-may-to, to-mah-to," he enunciates clearly. "Now go away." Behind him, he hears Uhura's quiet snort of laughter just as the turbolift opens. "You go away too."

"Good lord, how long has he been like this?"

"Long enough, Doctor. The façade was necessary until three-point-eight-one minutes ago."

"Well it's not necessary anymore, damn it! You're sick, Jim."

He lets his head drop back against the floor with a dramatic thud, rolling his eyes. Half a dozen crewmen in the vicinity wince at the noise, but it kind of knocks his eyeballs back where they're supposed to be, so hey, win for him. "You _think_?"

"I _do_ , actually, which is more than I can say for you. Risking your health like that is a damn fool thing to do, Jim, I don't care what Komack was threatening. Nobody on this crew wanted you to do that."

" _Da_ , Keptin." He swivels a glare toward his young navigator, who only shrugs at him. "That look is not intimidating at the moment, sir. It is better that we maybe lose shore leaf than that you die on us again. You force our hand, yes?"

"Yes," Spock's voice comes from above him, dry as New Vulcan sand.

"You know what?" He tries to sit up, and decides it'd be more dignified to just _not_ , than to fail at the attempt. Something soft prevents his head from hitting the ground this time, which is nice. "Fine, be ungrateful. You're all fired."

"Da, Keptin."

“Whatever you say, sir.”

"I mean it. Spock, put that in your report."

“I will not.”

“Heh. You’re learning.”


End file.
